Phobia
by Emi Lillian Kitsune
Summary: As much as he would like to deny it, there are a few things that Sherlock is afraid of.
1. Claustrophobia

**(Disclaimer: Nothing related to Sherlock belongs to me, but rather to Arthur Conan Doyle, BBC, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, etc. etc.)**

**The reason I wrote this story is because I was having trouble imagining situations in which Sherlock would show fear. I wanted to explore how he would react to being afraid, and so I wrote out a few scenarios. The first, claustrophobia, is a bit sillier (for lack of a better word) than the others, which get progressively more serious. Enjoy!**

Chapter 1: Claustrophobia

The hallway didn't go anywhere but a shuttered window, and the voices were getting closer. His possibilities were almost exhausted, except –

The closet door opened and closed, and Sherlock crouched inside, trying to silence his ragged breathing.

"… the judge isn't a problem."

"But if the case gets to the press—"

He tried to ignore the fact that his still-rapid breathing was not entirely due to the threat of discovery. On one of his first cases, the victim had been found in a hastily-buried coffin, fingernails embedded in the lid – dead. Outstripping the police, close on the murderer's heels, he had been caught and treated similarly, though luckily rescued before he had asphyxiated. He had never been entirely comfortable in small spaces, perhaps a side effect of his stature, but that had been the tipping point. _Classical conditioning_. For the past eight years, he had been unaccountably nervous in elevators, under beds, in closets… as he was now.

"It won't. The Yard is miles away from finding out what's going on here—"

Sherlock managed a smile. The closet wasn't much of anything, so small he had to crouch slightly, legs already aching from the uncomfortable position. Logically, there was nothing whatsoever to worry about. He thought briefly of John, off with Lestrade, probably in completely the wrong area of London.

He sent a text.

"Don't get cocky. We finish the job and leave the country."

And another text. Where was Lestrade? _Probably got lost on the way here._

If he burst out now and took them by surprise, he might be able to disable both of them. Assuming neither drew a gun, and assuming they didn't yell and alert the rest of the house, and assuming they were close enough to the door, and slow enough on the uptake.

He still had enough sanity left to stay where he was – barely.

"If Coleridge is convicted—"

"I told you, the judge won't be a problem."

This was humiliating. Not that he was in a closet, but that he was so upset about it. It was utterly irrational, and as he forced his terror down, he could feel sweat breaking out on his forehead. He sent a third text, fingers tense.

"Hold on – who's that down there, then?"

Sherlock could distantly here the hum of a car engine – standard police vehicle. _Lestrade. Finally._ By the sound, there could be as many as four cars – but he couldn't hear properly over the pounding in his ears.

"Maybe it's Davies…."

"And he brought his friends?"

There was the slam of a car door.

_Hurry up, you idiots._

"How did they find us?"

"We have to go."

Rapid, running footsteps receded, and Sherlock tried the door. For one heart-stopping second he thought it was jammed, but then it turned reluctantly under his fingers and he tumbled into the hallway.

Straightening his coat and scarf, he straightened, took a deep breath, and strode in the direction of the stairs.

As he walked into the entrance, John jogged to meet him.

"Sherlock, we – you look awful."

Sherlock ignored him, pushing the door open and walking briskly into the refreshingly cool night air. _Let the police mop it up for once._

He knew without looking that John had fallen in beside him.

"Was… did anything happen in there?"

"No."

"I got your text."

"Obviously."

They made the rest of the walk – and then taxi ride – in silence.

X

John hummed to himself as he poured water into two cups. Picking one up in each hand, he walked into the living room and set one down on the end table. Frowning, he looked around for Sherlock, and finding him absent, poked his head into the bedroom.

"Sherlock?"

"Leave it on the desk, thanks."

John did as he was bid, then walked to the closet and pulled the door open.

"What the hell are you doing in there?"

"Reconditioning," said Sherlock. His hands were clasped in his lap, white knuckles betraying his apparent calm.

"Why?"

"Why do people do anything?" He cracked one eye open and gazed up at John balefully. "I'm eliminating a weakness."

"But… what weakness?"

Sherlock rolled his head back and stared at the ceiling, exuding exasperation. "Go drink your tea, John."

Shaking his head, John began to walk back to the living room.

"Shut the door, please!" Sherlock called after him. Grumbling, John obligingly shut the closet door and settled on the couch, resigned to confusion.

**This chapter was rather light, which is nice – but from here on out, they get a bit darker. Don't forget to review!**


	2. To sleep, perchance to dream

**Okay, I lied - this chapter isn't really any darker than the last one. I hope you enjoy it anyway! And thanks to everyone who reviewed!**

Chapter 2: To sleep—perchance to dream

He tried to sleep as little as he could and still function, going days without resting. On a case, he could spend more hours than anyone would believe awake, running on adrenaline and willpower—but when he finally succumbed to necessity it seemed only to increase the intensity of his dreams.

Mathematically impossible shapes spun and folded and burst in a shower of blood that spattered over him like London rain. He walked through the endless hallways of St. Bart's as John wandered behind him with a gun, firing randomly—the bullets had a life of their own and hovered, humming like a swarm of bees, around Sherlock's head. Every hallway led to the pool, and when he walked into the water it was deep and dark and Moriarty floated before him, face grotesquely puffed, until Sherlock looked up and saw the water had no surface.

He woke himself forcefully, again and again, but each time he calculated that he needed more sleep and forced himself to lay there, pulse thudding in the dark, composing poetic logarithms to the rhythm of the beats and waiting for the dreams to return.

_Four hours of sleep over an eighty-hour timespan is not enough_, he told himself as he sat on the edge of his bed in his dressing gown. But he couldn't bring himself to lay back down and fight phantoms any longer. Stretching, muscles complaining of exhaustion, he stood and made his way to the lounge. He picked up the violin sitting precariously on the windowsill and invented a gentle melody as he looked outside—2:43 in the morning and the road was deserted.

"Sherlock?" a voice rough with sleep asked. He didn't turn.

"John."

"What are you doing up?" It's—" John glanced at his watch and blew out his lips in a tired sigh "—It's bloody three o'clock in the morning."

"You should be in bed, then."

"Can't stay asleep."

Sherlock motioned at his violin with the bow. "Am I keeping you up?"

John shrugged and yawned again.

"Just a bit. It's mostly dreams, actually."

"Mm." A creak of upholstery as John settled into his favorite chair. "'For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,'" Sherlock said to himself, bringing the bow down softly on the strings again.

"What?"

"Nothing."

John rubbed his eyes. "You as well, then?"

Sherlock turned to look at him, raising the bow off the strings. "Beg your pardon?"

"Are nightmares keeping you up?"

"You're obviously short on sleep. I don't have nightmares."

"If you say so."

There was a long silence. When Sherlock looked over again, John was asleep with his mouth slightly open. Setting down his violin, Sherlock unfolded a blanket and threw it over him, then settled on the couch, glancing at his flatmate before passing over his violin for his laptop.

When John woke three hours later, Sherlock brought him a cup of tea before sitting back on the couch with his own.

"Sleep well?"

"Mm." John stretched his neck. "Bit sore."

"To be expected if you're sleeping in that chair."

"There's nothing wrong with this chair."

Sherlock simply raised his eyebrows and took another sip of tea.

"Sherlock, did you sleep at all?"

"Adequately."

Now it was John's turn to raise his eyebrows, but he let it go and picked up the Sunday paper, opening it to the latest article on the elections. Sherlock rubbed his face and stood to bring his cup to the kitchen, but sat down clumsily as spots swarmed before his vision.

There was absolutely nothing to do, but oddly enough, he didn't feel bored. Watching the play of light on the upholstery, he hardly noticed as his eyes began to shut, empty teacup falling from his fingers and bouncing silently on the carpet.

When he woke, the afternoon sun was shining through the window, there was the sound of the shower running, and someone had covered him with a blanket.


	3. Helpless

**I hope you enjoy this chapter! It took me a bit longer than usual to post this-sorry about that.**

**If you have the time and inclination, a review is always appreciated. Also, if you have any ideas on potential future chapters, feel free to mention them in a review!**

Chapter 3

He felt it for the first time when John pulled open his parka in the swimming pool, revealing enough explosives to blast a crater in the floor. Looking at that little red dot hovering over the doctor's chest, Sherlock Holmes realized he was helpless.

It happened again at the house of Irene Adler—twice. The first time, the American pressed the gun to John's head and Sherlock didn't know if he was quick enough—if he was brilliant enough—to figure it all out in time and save John's life. The second time, he was on the floor, drugged, Irene Adler looming over him with a riding crop and a smile, and his mind wasn't functioning.

Helpless.

He didn't like it.

"Say what you have, and quickly," he said without bothering to look at the woman—_Cara Roberts, thirty-nine years of age, two dogs, no children, unhappy but faithful relationship—_who had come into his flat, another petitioner seeking his help.

A basic story of domestic abuse—the wealthy lawyer husband who would tear her apart in court, the daughter she had always wanted to have but her husband wouldn't allow, the sense of isolation, desperation.

He wasn't really paying attention, roused from his thoughts when the door clicked shut.

"Why did you do that?"

"What?" He blinked and looked around at John. "Do what?"

"Offer to help her. It's not exactly your sort of case."

"Did I? Hm." _That's the problem with running on autopilot._

"You don't even remember? You're meeting her at the café at twelve tomorrow to review the case!"

Now that he thought about it, he did vaguely recall offering his help. _Interesting._

"You're a bad influence on me, John."

"Not according to Lestrade," John muttered. Sherlock ignored him, going back to the article he was reading.

"These theories are rubbish," he said in exasperation. "All that picture shows is a standard airplane flight pattern. And the author has no idea what he's talking about, _Roe v. Wade _was in 1973, not 1976—"

He looked up to find the room empty. John was probably somewhere else in the flat doing something inane. He sighed, looking over his webpage for the twenty-second time that day. _Bored._

"I'm off to get some bread," John said, walking back into the room, coat on.

Sherlock ignored him, idly noting the snap of the door closing and the pattern of footsteps on the stairs. The front door opened and shut. Thirteen and a half seconds passed. Sherlock considered picking up his violin but tapped out the rhythms on his leg instead.

From half a block down, there was the distinctive crack of a gunshot.

Sherlock sat up. His mind flipped through every possibility like pages in an encyclopedia, eliminating them one by one. As the last of the echoes faded he was already down the stairs, leaving the door hanging open behind him.

Never had his transport so frustrated him. Long as his legs were, it seemed to take an eternity to sprint the half-block, his mind far ahead of him, spinning out over the pavement. He registered the woman on her phone, hand over her mouth, as he passed—the police would be on their way.

John, when Sherlock reached him, looked surprised. He tried to get up and slumped back to where he had fallen. His eyes flashed over the scene until they found Sherlock. He opened his mouth to say something, winced, and shut it again. Pulling off his dressing gown, Sherlock tore off the sleeve, pressing it to the wound on John's stomach.

The man hissed in pain. Sherlock didn't bother apologizing.

"You're not wearing any shoes," John said groggily.

Sherlock didn't respond. There were so many ways that John could die—damage to vital organs, blood loss, shock. Where was the bloody ambulance?

He heard it, three streets over and approaching, and grit his teeth, pressing harder on the wound.

John grimaced.

"You're going to be fine," Sherlock said.

"I'm a doctor, I know it's not good," John gasped.

"You've just been shot. No one sane would trust your opinion."

_Three minutes and forty-two seconds_, Sherlock thought as the paramedics finally arrived. They pushed him out of the way, and for once he didn't say anything—they knew more about this than he did. _A dangerous gap in my knowledge. I shall address it as soon as possible._

"Sir, you should get a coat."

Why wouldn't they shut up?

They objected when he tried to climb in the ambulance, too.

"I'm his friend," he said, hardly listening to the words coming out of his mouth. John managed to mutter something to one of the women, and they finally let Sherlock on.

_That delay could mean his life._

He watched the heart monitor as the ambulance pulled away, eyes fixed on the rhythmic spike.

X

"A drive-by? Don't be absurd, it wouldn't have been a drive-by. It's Baker Street, not the backstreets of Detroit."

"People get shot in London, too." Lestrade said, trying to speak calmly.

"You think it was an _accident_?" Sherlock paced across the office. "Your capacity to overlook the obvious has always astounded me, but this crosses into blatant idiocy."

"You think it's some sort of a conspiracy?" Donovan said, crossing her arms, tone making it clear just how unlikely she thought that to be.

"Moriarty told me he would burn the heart out of me. And this… this is just how he'd do it." Sherlock threw himself into a chair. "Lestrade—"

"We will tell you if we have any leads," the man said. "Until then, this is a drive-by shooting. And no, we're not going to take you on for this case—you're too close to be objective."

Sherlock stood and walked to the door.

"Let me know when you can't solve it."

The door slammed behind him.

"So the freak has a heart," Donovan observed idly.

"Sally…" Lestrade said warningly, rubbing his forehead.

"John Watson. Who would've thought?" She gave a half-laugh and left the office.

Lestrade picked up his phone and dialed, listening to it ring for a few moments.

"Hello? Yes, this is Lestrade. Yes—do you have any leads on the shooting?"

X

Sherlock sat at John's bedside. The man had been unconscious for five hours and twenty-five minutes, and probably wouldn't wake for several more. Logically, he could do more good outside the hospital, investigating the shooting, interrogating witnesses. His concern wouldn't help John any more than it would have helped the victims in Moriarty's bombing game.

But for some reason he couldn't bring his legs to straighten and bear him from the room. His homeless network was out, finding what they could, and the occasional _dings_ from his phone were calming. As if he was achieving something.

John had already been wheeled out of surgery; infection looked unlikely at this point. It was more likely than it had been before that he would survive.

He couldn't remember feeling so helpless.

He clenched his fists in front of his face. _Caring is not an advantage._ Mycroft was correct about that, at least.

X

Slowly, the ceiling swam into focus above him. John tried to talk, but could only manage a muffled groan.

"Drink."

Someone held a glass to his face. He wasn't entirely sure if this was standard hospital procedure, but he drank obediently.

He blinked a few times and the dark mass next to his bed coalesced into Sherlock, bags under his eyes and a sallow pallor to his skin.

"You're still not wearing a coat," John said groggily.

"You've been shot—and you're concerned about my coat," Sherlock stated flatly.

John started to laugh, and stopped. It hurt.

"What happened?"

"The police think it was a drive-by."

"You don't?"

"Of course not! A drive-by on Baker Street, hitting you just by coincidence?"

"People can get shot by accident," he grumbled. It was especially difficult to deal with Sherlock with an abdominal gunshot wound.

"Don't be stupid."

"I'm on pain medications, I'm allowed to be stupid."

Sherlock didn't respond. John thought for a moment, mind painfully slow. He could imagine what Sherlock would say to that.

"Sherlock," he said, "Why are you here?"

"Would you prefer I wasn't?"

John frowned. He hadn't meant to be insensitive.

"No, I'm glad you are. But why aren't you off investigating? You told me that caring won't help the victims."

Hopefully Sherlock wouldn't judge his coherency too harshly.

"I suppose I don't think of you as another victim," Sherlock said reluctantly.

John thought about that, slowly, and smiled.

He hadn't noticed falling asleep again, but the room was dark the next time he woke. Something shifted beside his bed, and he turned his head to look at Sherlock. The man looked even worse than before.

"Why aren't you sleeping?"

"Sleep is a crutch."

"Sherlock—that's ridiculous," he protested, happy to find his mind a little clearer than before.

"I've gone longer than this without sleep."

"Just because you're bloody Sherlock Holmes—"

"Do you need more medication?" Sherlock asked, tone falsely concerned.

John subsided, exasperated.

"I don't like it, John," Sherlock said at last.

"What, medication?" he replied, confused.

Sherlock ran his hands through his hair. "Sitting here. Waiting. Useless."

"Well, what do you expect to be able to do?" John asked, befuddled.

"That's exactly it! There's nothing I can do, and I _hate_ _it_."

"You might want to lower your voice a bit, unless you'd rather the nurse comes and throws you out."

"He can try."

"Don't be stupid." He sighed. God, why did he have to face a crisis in this condition? "We're all helpless at some point, Sherlock. There's not much you can do about it."

"There's always something you can do about it," said Sherlock, adamant.

"Trying to convince Sherlock Holmes to change his mind," John muttered. "I must be mad."

Sherlock looked as if he wanted to say something cutting, but held his tongue.

"How about," John said reasonably, "I try my best not to get shot again, and you get some sleep?"

Sherlock made a contemptuous noise.

"I'll get them to throw you out if you don't sleep," John said more firmly.

"Very well," Sherlock said, folding his legs at the ankle and stretching himself out in the chair, closing his eyes disdainfully.

"That doesn't look very—"

Sherlock opened one eye and gave John a blistering glare.

John sighed, closing his own eyes and letting himself slip away again. Hopefully Sherlock wouldn't do anything too stupid.

X

Sherlock waited until John's breathing was deep and even before opening his eyes again. The doctor didn't look to be in too much pain—odds were good that he would survive. Sherlock's chair was surprisingly comfortable… He didn't need sleep, but perhaps it wouldn't hurt to close his eyes for a moment and let himself recuperate. John would most likely be there when he opened them again.


	4. Alone

Chapter 4: Alone

**Sorry, it's been quite a while since I've worked on this story! I hope the new chapter makes up for it, even if it is rather short. As always, please review! It doesn't take more than a moment, and it is immensely appreciated.**

_All men's misfortunes spring from their hatred of being alone. –Jean De La Bruyere_

Sherlock was six when Mycroft disappeared. There were a few words about _university_, words he didn't quite pay attention to, comforting explanations and rules in a firm tone flying back and forth above his head. It was all boring and he ignored it, instead exploring the anatomy of a dragonfly in his mind before moving on to the geography of deep sea trenches. He looked up a few hours later to ask his brother something about the finer points of the insect nervous system and whether it would be hypothetically possible for a cockroach-like creature to exist on the scale of _The Metamorphosis'_ Gregor and found the house empty.

It had that echoing feel such that he knew right away, but he wandered through the rooms anyway, feeling like a ghost. It was a expansive house, finely built and well-equipped, but utterly empty besides himself and the occasional insect. Mrs. Holmes didn't approve of pets, and her husband had yielded with a sigh like a pillow giving up the ghost. She was a tall woman in black, clicking in high heels, always moving quickly, coming or going—he was a chalky man, spectacles winking, sometimes standing in the doorway before vanishing again. Neither of them were ever here.

But Mycroft was. He stayed in his room studying, learning the year's curriculum before moving on with a groan of impatience to more important matters, sometimes making phonecalls, sometimes writing, hair pushed back and eyes narrowed, pencil flying across the sheets of paper. But he was always at home—until, it seemed, today.

Sherlock had read about loneliness in one of his sentimental phases (he didn't have time to bother with _fiction_ nowadays). There was also the odd psychological study, although they were full of contradictions and uncertainties. But he had to say that as far as personal experience went—experience limited to the past few minutes, admittedly—he didn't like it much.

And so he made his way to Mycroft's room and took each book off the shelf, layering them carefully, building the paper-and-binding walls higher. The blueprint expanded in his mind and he trotted back and forth through the house, fetching things, until at last he crawled into his fortress and lay on his back, hands behind his head, staring at the blanket stretched above him. Frowning as he concentrated, he began to lay the foundations of a similar fortress in his mind.

When the phone rang at 4:26 in the afternoon, Sherlock carefully removed a few books from his makeshift den to form a door, crawled out, and put them back before breaking into a run and picking up the phone as he slid to a stop on the polished wood floor.

"Yes, what?" he asked.

There was a scratchy sigh on the other end. Mycroft. "I wanted to check in. Mother and Father aren't there?"

"You know they aren't."

"Did you have a nice day?" Mycroft's question was stilted and uncomfortable.

"Where _are_ you?" Sherlock asked, not quite avoiding sounding plaintitive.

"University. I told you."

"I wasn't listening," Sherlock said accusingly. "The house is empty. It's been empty all day."

"You're almost seven, I thought you could handle it."

Sherlock drew himself up, although he knew Mycroft couldn't see it. "Of course I can handle it."

"Then why are you complaining?"

"I'm not _complaining_." There was a long silence. "You never go anywhere," Sherlock said grudgingly. "It was strange today."

"Do you want me to call a nanny?" There was a hint of an insult in Mycroft's tone, but Sherlock knew his brother would do it if he felt it was necessary.

"No." Sherlock spoke decisively, pushing a curl off his forehead. "I'm sure I'll get used to it."

Years later, he realized it wasn't something one got used to. He learned how to put it aside—the only trouble was when he looked up, a question or comment or clarification on the tip of his tongue, and realized no one was there. It fell over him like a pall, unexpectedly—because Mycroft had left for university again; because he had refused a roommate this year; because it was probably better to rent a flat alone, all things considered. The skull, however illegitimately acquired, was a help. At least his voice didn't trail around the flat meaninglessly when he spoke. And criticizing the police—when he finally convinced them of their inadequacy—was soothing.

It was a weakness, he felt, on a level with the need for sleep and food—unavoidable and tiresome. And so, just as he reluctantly slept and ate, he acquired a flatmate.

The change was unexpected. Not the living situation or companionship—that he had predicted—but the increase in general quality. As if suddenly someone was feeding him nutrient supplements. He found himself squinting at John from different angles, trying to find the component that was changing his life so subtly and so jarringly. He had always found it odd that people chose to surround themselves with other humans—didn't they grate on each other? It was illogical. But it was undeniable that he was quicker, more energetic, more _brilliant_ as the loneliness lifted.

The smug understanding in Mycroft's smile was tiresome, but Sherlock made his customary jabs and ignored it. It wasn't as if he couldn't be alone. Twenty years of solitude had proven that, if nothing else. He simply functioned better with someone else in the house.


End file.
